Hastur's Revenge
by DragonEyeZ
Summary: Hastur has a score to settle with Crowley after the episode with Ligur. And he manages to settle another score at the same time...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Following on tradition (seeing as how two of the greatest writers ever got together to write GO) this story was written by two fanfiction authors who loved said book. SilverWolf7 and DragonEyeZ.

Disclaimer - Miss Wolf and Miss Dragon do not own any of these characters. They all belong to the two geniuses we are not, Mr Pratchett and Mr Gaiman.

**Hastur's Revenge**

Chapter 1:

Hastur was lurking. He was quite good at it, even without Ligur as backup support, and, at the moment, he was lurking behind a statue as he observed the church not far from there. This time, he was not merely lurking – he was thinking as well. Planning would be a more precise word for it. And, in particular, he was planning on how to act out his revenge on Crawly – not only the incident with Ligur, but also the incident involving him being trapped in an ansaphone for several hours with nothing but one single, annoying message for company. He would very much like to act out his revenge for that, too, although he knew he could only act out his revenge on Crawly once. And that would be for doing the old holy-water-over-the-door-trick on Ligur. He guessed he would have to track down the person who made the message in the first place be the one to pay for it.

A grin crossed his face, threatening to split it in two, as he came up with a most brilliant plan to make Crawly pay dearly – and without having to locate holy water somewhere. In fact, why at all bother with getting holy water when he had an entire church to use instead?

As was his wont, Crowley changed all traffic lights to red on his path, then raced straight over, causing a multitude of chaos behind him. He grinned, adjusting his sunglasses and felt happier than ever. Almost-Armageddon had been stopped, Aziraphale had gotten his bookshop back, Crowley – most importantly – had gotten his Bentley back, and he was fetching the angle for dinner at the Ritz. There were few things which could make his day brighter, although the sight of a mother and child walking down the pavement, and the child pointing at the nearby ice-cream van was too much for him to resist. Smirking, he drove on while the child began wailing and the mother started yelling, causing people to stop and stare, whispering among themselves and spreading rumours. That was the good thing about humans, Crowley had learned. All they needed was a slight nudge, and they played everything out on their own without him needing to supervise it all.

At least, he thought, as he skidded around the final corner on two wheels before bringing the Bentley to a halt outside the bookstore, neither he nor the angel had heard from their superiors about the whole halting-Armageddon-thing they had done. Which, to be frank, was something that relieved Crowley immensely.

Hastur cackled. It was not usually something he did, but he felt like it at the moment. Everything was perfectly set up, prepared for his revenge on Crawly. Night had come, and he could see the headlights of that black mechanical _thing_ that Crawly had such a fondness for riding in – Hastur had always preferred the flaming horses, himself – stopping briefly, dropping off someone, before it continued its drive in the overall direction of Crawly's apartment. With a grin, the Duke sent out a single, mental spike, knowing that the other demon would pick it up, and headed towards the church where he had set up his plans. With any luck, the little snake would have enough brains to follow the mental nudge.

Crowley hit the breaks with a force that would have brought his foot through the floor of any other car that was not used to his way of driving, the spike of demonic energy immediately alerting him. Someone was in his territory, and, judging from the power and feeling of the spike, was up to no good. The demon gave a low snarl, hands tightening around the wheel of the Bentley to the point where his knuckles turned white. No demon would enter _his_ territory!

Switching his foot to the gas, pulling the stick into reverse, he made a U-turn that would have made even the greatest parking lot-snatcher turn red with envy, switched to first and drove at a breakneck speed in the direction of the spike, determined to drive this pitiful demon or imp who had dared to enter his, _his_, territory out – preferably by running them over with his car and shipping them down to Below to be questioned about how they got discorporated and of what exactly they were doing on the surface.

He wasn't expecting to follow the feel of demon to a small church. Perhaps it was trying to repent, or better yet, trying to kill itself. That at least would make his job a whole lot easier. A movement from out of the corner of the eye alerted him to where the hellish being was and he noticed it was in a place he wouldn't drive his car (unless, of course, he wanted to crash it into the fence surrounding the church). Without much thought, he stopped his car, hopped out and began to gracefully stalk towards where he had seen the movement.

No one was there, or at least that he could see. He was right against the fence, careful only to touch its outer side and not wrap his fingers about it. Perhaps it could turn invisible, or had slipped away when it had felt his presence. Or turned into a puddle of goo on the other side of the fence. He hoped for the latter. It would save him a fight.

With a gleam in his red eyes, Hastur watched as Crawly moved himself as close to the fence as he could get physically, pushing against it a bit, but careful not to touch the other side which was holy, and grinned wickedly. Yes, he had the pitiful excuse of a demon right where he wanted him. Time now for his revenge against the horrific acts caused towards his lurking partner Ligur.

Crowley momentarily thought of trying to get his eyes as close as possible to see if he could see any patches of gunk that used to be demon, but stopped himself from doing something that stupid. He could go blind if his eyes were to rest too much near the holiness of the other side of the fence. He shuddered at the thought.

With a slight sigh, thinking that the demon must have slipped away and slunk back to its hellish home, Crowley turned away from the fence and was surprised to find himself bodily picked up and thrown against the fence, knocking air he didn't need to breathe out of his lungs and leaving him breathless. he was even more surprised to be looking into the angry expression on a certain Duke of Hell's face.

"Why, hello Crawly. Funny meetin' you here."

"'Evening Hastur," Crowley wheezed, realizing that although he didn't need to breathe, he did need air to talk.

"Ya know, Crawly, I got a little score to settle," the Duke hissed, pressing harder. Crowley could feel the skin of his back grow warmer from where it was pressed through the bars. "'Bout me friend Ligur."

"Funny, I would have thought you'd be glad to get rid of him," Crowley replied, but instantly had recognized the danger he was in. If the fence – Go… He… Someone forbid it – would break behind him, he would be reduced to a little pile of Crowley-goo. Wouldn't do good for Aziraphale to be forced to take him out for dinner in a small bottle.

Bringing his knee up, Crowley was pleased to hear a surprised grunt as it connected with the Duke's stomach, and, just for a split second, the hands twisted into his jacket loosened enough for him to shimmer out of the expensive cloth and twist away. Maybe he could make it to the Bentley – surely the angel would be able to take him in, and there was a chance that the sheer holiness Aziraphale could radiate would keep Hastur away. It was a risky chance to take, but he knew that he did not have many chances otherwise. It wasn't as if he had more holy water lying around for these special occasions…

He didn't get far, though, before hands dug into his leg, tripping him and, before he knew of it, he had an enraged Duke of Hell on top of him, eagerly trying to claw out his eyes. Crowley instantly bit down on a hand getting a bit too close to his face, and brought both feet up, sending Hastur on a brief flight into the air before crashing into the ground. By this time, Crowley was back on his feet and leaped forward, hoping to push the Duke through the small gate within the fence. What he had not expected, however, was that Hastur would catch his arm, turn on the spot and, with a grace that one had not expected from this particular Duke, flung Crowley over his shoulder and, thus, over the fence.

Crowley screamed.

Aziraphale had detected the spike of demonic power, and, after six thousand years, he had immediately been able to tell that it wasn't something of Crowley's, and, having a chilly feeling of dread running down his spine again and again, he had quickly grabbed his jacket from the coathanger and rushed out the door, running as fast as he could in the direction of the spike he had sensed.

He arrived just in time to see Crowley struggle against Hastur, but, even as he leaped through the air, tackling the Duke from behind, he found it was too late. Crowley was already airborne, and as if it came from far away, the angel heard himself scream the demon's name.

"You!" Hastur snarled, knocking the angel off his back and turning to glare at the other being. "You're the one with that message!"

Aziraphale blinked, not understanding what was meant. Then the Duke of Hell's weight crashed into him, attempting to bring both of them to the ground, and, out of pure reflex, the angel spread his wings, breaking their momentum and maintained his balance. Then pain exploded through his back.

What very few people know is that an angel's scream can be heard almost everywhere, and it is capable of penetrating even the thickest layer of blurriness, and although no one near knew what it was they heard, all felt a sudden sense of compassion and fear, huddling within their homes as they felt an ancient sense of danger moving about. As it was, the scream also carried to the creature on the other side of the fence.

Crowley stirred, barely feeling able to move, but, what he realized, he was still alive. Not only alive, but even intact, despite being pressed fully against holy ground by holy air. Then, he felt it. Just the tiniest, minuscule taint, drawing a dark line through the aura of the church and reducing its strength just enough for him to survive, at least as long as he got out of there soon. Forcing his eyes open, however, first noticing that his sunglasses – broken – lay on the ground not far from him, he then turned his gaze above the glasses, and felt his blood run cold, recognizing the figures.

There was no mistaking Aziraphale for anyone else, nor was it possible to believe Hastur to not be Hastur. But, what the lesser demon saw was what frightened him. The angel was kneeling on the grass beyond the fence of the small church, although clearly struggling and most definitely screaming, and Hastur's hands – tipped with demon claws – tore down again and again, each time coming back with handfuls of blood and feathers that gleamed white even in the moonlight.

And he couldn't move very far or very fast without having to stop to rest for a bit, he found out soon after spotting the horrible scene in front of him. He had to get out of this church, then he had to go save Aziraphale before the angel became demon food. And he had to do it fast.

He managed to get his arms under his body, but didn't have the strength left to lift himself up, so he began to crawl as best he could (and considering he was still a bit snakish, this attempt ended up a bit awkward. He blamed it on the human body).

He was in one of his resting states when Hastur glared in his direction, saw him writhing in pain and smirked. The Duke then went about finishing demolishing Aziraphale's wings, twisting them until bones snapped and began poking out of skin that was visible and featherless, before saying something into the angel's ear and leaving the church and its two injured beings alone… Honestly, Crowley wondered after he finally got himself out of the church grounds, how could it be that Hastur lacked the sense to know that if he was to be killed by the holy ground, he wouldn't have been writhing, but he would have been an undignified mess that was well and truly dead seconds from falling on the ground.

Well, no one said Dukes of Hell had to be smart, and none were as marvelous an example as Hastur. He was dumb as a post, and that was an insult to posts everywhere. Even Ligur had shown more brains from time to time, although Crowley had to tip his hat to the fact that Hastur had actually outsmarted Crowley enough to toss him over the fence.

Taking a few, steadying breaths, the demon dug his fingers into the ground and pulled himself close enough to the angel to reach out and carefully place a hand onto the bloodied one of the other being lying on the ground among the feathers pulled from what once had been beautiful white, although not particularly well-groomed, wings. It pained him, feeling the raw holiness of an angel – even of Aziraphale – so close, but he needed the comfort of a friend. The angel flinched at his touch, pulling away and curling up into a ball, mutilated remnants of wings pulled around him in an attempt to create a protective cocoon.

"Angel…," Crowley hissed, feeling something odd appear in his eyes and blur his sight. He felt it was unfair – he had been the one that had poured a bucket of holy water over Ligur and trapped Hastur in an ansaphone - but now the angel had been subjected to Hastur's wrath as well, without having done anything to cause it.

That was when Crowley's mind managed to dig out the words the Duke had spoken, the ones that had drifted to his ears before he had struck the holy ground, and he felt ready to crawl back into the church for his stupidity. Aziraphale had been the one who had left the single message on the ansaphone when Crowley trapped the Duke within it, and it would be like Hastur to believe it would be fair to extract his revenge on the person who had left the message, rather on the person who had trapped him on the ansaphone. Well, maybe he would do both, but the point still remained that 'logic' was a word not found within the Duke's vocabulary.

"Angel?" Crowley tried again, this time reaching out to carefully place a hand on a shaking shoulder, but found he had to retract it again as the pain burning through his palm was too much for him to keep it there for a longer period of time. How was he to get them home? Aziraphale couldn't drive, and even if he could, would probably never bother with it. Crowley was a mess himself really, and was still very weak, but he was feeling a litle better now he was out of the church. The problem was how was he to pick up Aziraphale if touching the angel burnt him to a crisp?

He closed his eyes, aware of something wet trickling down his face. Angry at himself, he swiped at his cheeks and tried to comfort the angel, comfort himself in the angel's usually harmless presence, only to be burnt again. They would need help getting home...but who would help the two of them looking like they did. Crowley didn't have the energy left to even make himself a new pair of sunglasses, let alone make the Bentley run without petrol in the tank. And, judging from Aziraphale's condition, the angel did not appear to have enough energy for that, either.

And so it was that the two merely lay, side by side, Aziraphale trying to get over the trauma that it was to literally have his wings torn to shreds, and Crowley trying to overcome the pain that it was even being near the angel.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It had been a long night, Crowley thought as the sun started to show itself. He tried to move again, but found his body too sluggish at that moment to do much of anything. He had been periodically looking about himself all the night, seeing if they were well enough hidden that no one would spot them. Hopefully they were.

The last thing he wanted was to be found by some idiotic child, stared at like some freak until some adults arrived and carted off with the angel in tow to a zoo. What an exhibit they would make. They may even be shipped off to the circus if zoo life wasn't for them.

He reached out with a hand again, trying to see if he could touch the angel now, another thing he had been doing periodically throughout the night. The small whimpering sounds Aziraphale made at the small touch made him move his hand away again. That and the painful burning the small touch had inflicted on his own person.

"Go away, Crowley," came the small, whimpered whisper. "Please - leave me alone."

"No can do, angel," the demon replied with a sigh. "I can't even crawl away from here, even if the furnace of holiness you're running is burning me."

There was a long pause, only the faint tremors that still lingered within the angel showing that he had not dropped off into unconsciousness.

"Sorry," came the low reply - and Crowley smiled weakly. The day Aziraphale did not have the energy to apologize would be the day the world would truly come to an end.

"Yeah, well, it's not like you are in any position to go crawling about yourself. We're both stuck here until we are found."

It was a good enough acceptance of the apology, and he was sure that Aziraphale understood what he was trying to say back. That he was sorry that they were both in this place, both suffering and with likely little chance of getting out without having to keep up a constant show of Power to make people forget they had wings, or were covered in blood or...or were anything other than normal people really.

It made his head ache even more than it already was. He really wished for someone to come along and save them then. The angel needed special care to help him with what was left of his wings so that they could heal normally and not out of place. He needed a good lay down in a bed and several months worth of sleep. And a few very strong pain killers while he was at it.

"I'm telling you, Agnes was wrong!" Newt protested, even as he squinted against the darkness beyond the headlights of the Wasabi.

"Agnes is never wrong," Anathema replied, holding the book in one hand and illuminating its pages with a torchlight held in the other. "We just have to find a house of God that's been soiled with sin, and we'll find the two who needs help outside of it."

"A church that's been sinned in - we've only got a few thousand of those in London," Newt replied with a sigh, when a few white feathers suddenly came into view, gleaming in the glow from the headlights.

Despite its age, the Wasabi had good brakes, and Anathema had, thankfully, just reached the prophecy that told she ought to brace herself against the windshield, thus allowing her to at least remain in her seat.

Once the car had come to a standstill, outside of a church, the two got out and started to jog to where the few feathers were stuck to a bit of fence. It took only a few seconds of peeking around the bushes when they found what they were looking for. Lying on the grass outside the church gates were two miserable looking beings, one with shredded white wings, the other looking as if he had been through Hell and back. According to the book, he had gotten pretty close to it. Or Heaven at any rate. Hell was where he was from.

As they approached, the demon made a hissing noise, clearly trying to scare them off, and moved a protective arm over the other's waist - with the result that both flinched and pulled away from each other.

"We need to get them somewhere safe," Anathema said, rolling up her sleeves, and moved over - regardless of the hiss-turned-snarl from the demon and hooked her arms under his, before dragging the demon back towards the Wasabi. "Give me a hand here, Newt - I can't carry his whole weight."

"Can we have them both in my car?" Newt asked, obediently lifting the demon's legs - and noticed that he apparently wore snakeskin boots. At least he thought they were boots.

Anathema paused, thinking.

"No. Agnes said we should take the serpent's chariot," she replied, ignoring the protesting whimper from the person...well, man-shaped creature, that they were carrying.

"Well, where is his car then. And didn't it, you know, catch fire?" Newt asked, making the mistake of looking up a bit and towards the demon's face. Yellow eyes glared back at him, making him shiver. He felt very vulnerable; regardless of the almost dead weight he was helping carry.

Anathema sighed as she moved closer towards the Wasabi, and where her Book was sitting in the passenger seat. She didn't need it to find the car. She would remember the look of the old fashioned thing anywhere, and she saw it parked just a little further up the road from where Newt's car was currently sitting half on the grass and half on the road. It was better parked than the Bentley.

"No one but me drives my car," came an angry hissing of words. Both Anathema and Newt glanced down.

"And, pray tell, would you call yourself in any state that equals being capable of driving a car?" Anathema asked, before opening the door to the Bentley and, through hers and Newt's combined efforts, managed to get the demon into the passenger's seat. "You think you can find the keys while we fetch your friend?"

"'S got no keyss..," came the hissed reply.

"Good. Then you'll have to start it, Newt," Anathema concluded, and turned to walk back towards where the angel lay.

Behind her, the demon paled even more than he was, and, with a roar and a cough, the Bentley's engine started.

Anathema merely smiled. It usually had that effect on people, she thought, while loosely looping the injured angel's arm around her neck and lifting him - concluding that he was quite a bit heavier than the demon.

"So, where to?" Newt asked a few minutes later, after he had managed to get the Bentley onto the street, and was heading towards the central London.

"Anges says that we should be going towards a bookshop," Anathema replied from her seat at the back, which also served to hold the angel.

"Turn left here," the demon hissed, his knuckles white where he held onto the seat and a few droplets of sweat trickled down his temples as he clearly struggled to keep the old car running.

It took an agonizing five minutes before they reached the road that Aziraphale lived on. If Crowley had been in better shape, he would have gotten them there in one. He just didn't want his car to be ruined. All he knew was that Newt better start flawing it, because he was losing energy to keep the car running.

"Juss' two more t'go," he stated, before whatever was keeping the car running failed and they slowly came to a halt a few stores away from the one they wanted.

Crowley was about to swear out loud and keep it up for as long as he possibly could when Newt took his foot off the gas pedal. The car began to make its usually so comforting tink-tink sounds that suggested its engine was cooling down. He tried to do the same, wiping the sweat that was running down his face away. He had barely enough energy left to lift his arm that high, and he let it flop lifelessly back to his side afterwards.

"Sssorry, couldn't get uss all the way there," he stated.

"It's shorter than we dragged you to the car," Newt replied with a sigh. "I just hope we won't run into anyone - especially not with your friend."

Thankfully, they did not, and, after a few trips back and forth, both angel and demon had been moved inside the shop - by some sheer luck, it had not been locked, nor had any of the usual wards been put up.

Newt and Anathema were at the angel's side, trying to coax said hurt being into letting them see his wings properly, as they were a mess and needed to be put back into the right order before anything could even begin to heal. Aziraphale was being very adamant about no one touching him there though and, with a few more failed attempts, they decided to leave him be for the time being.

Aziraphale was left on the couch, what was left of once beautiful white wings facing away from the back of the furniture so as to touch nothing but air. Crowley, who was in a comfortably old armchair that the angel was extremely fond of and refused to get a new one, was then approached.

Anathema stopped before the hissing being, not being intimidated by the show. Agnes had told her that his bite wasn't poisonous, but that he may snap at her. She didn't mind really. Anyone or anything that was injured usually had that fight or flight reaction.

"Now, you stop that noise. We saved you didn't we? You should be thanking us."

The noise stopped. Crowley cocked his head to one side. He was silent a long time, before he lowered his head. "Yeah you did. Thanks, I guess."

"That's a good boy," Anathema said, before crouching before the demon. "Now let me take a look at you - I want to make sure that you're okay. Agnes did say that you weren't as physically wounded as your friend, but judging from the fight she described, I'd be damned if you haven't gotten at least a few bruises."

After much growling, hissing and snarling, Crowley found himself with a bandage around his chest to keep a few bent ribs in place and was told to keep his right leg up as much as he could to allow it to heal.

All in all he was much better off physically than the angel was. It didn't stop him from feeling he had been dragged around Heaven a few times as a trophy to the other side.

He was more metaphysically injured and that kind of thing didn't leave a mark. Well, one that was visible to most beings anyway.

Newt had stayed by Aziraphale's side throughout that little exchange between his girlfriend (and just thinking that word made him grin like an idiot) and the demon, thanking God that it wasn't him. Well, at least he knew God really did exist. It even explained a few things, like why he was hopeless with technology of almost all kinds.

He had naturally been made to help stop certain events that were still fuzzy, but were coming back to him.

These two had decided to show up unannounced in his head in their full winged glory one night in his dream. He had gotten up to try and make some coffee to try and shake away such strange images, before he saw a certain book of prophecies lying open at a page that stated that memories of certain events would come back to all who had forgotten.

That was one of those things that he still had difficulties accepting, even more than that of angels and demons being real. That a book knew everything about his life, and of the future.

Although, as he glanced at the two wounded, celestial and hellish beings, he wondered briefly what would have happened with those two - and himself - had the book and its sequel not existed. Most likely, the world had faced its end.

Anathema reached for the angel next, but, as before, he merely curled up into a ball, refusing to cooperate with her, and no amount of coaxing made him even relax.

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale was never going to forgive him for this, but it was needed.

"Angel..," he began. "If you don't let them, I'll set fire to your collection of bibles."

The angel's head snapped up immediately, eyes wide with shock and terror. The demon, although he barely had the strength needed, briefly searched through his pocket, and located the small lighter he always carried on him - for no other reason than that it was made of steel, was sleek and looked like something from the 23rd century. The first click, striking a spark, caused the angel's wings to tremble and loosen. The second, causing a small flare, made them open further to a normal position. The third, keeping life in the small flame, caused the angelic being to bolt upright, throw his legs over the side of the couch so he sat up, and the wings unfolding completely to their full span - nearly knocking Newt over.

"Good. Now sit still," Crowley said with a sigh, letting the fire die out and his hand fall back to his side.

The angel groaned and hid his face in his hands as Anathema and Newt cautiously moved around him, and took in the damage done. It was a long work, as bones had to be reset, the few remaining feathers had to be plucked to allow the torn skin to heal, and the still bleeding wounds had to be stopped.

The angel whimpered at every touch to his mutilated wings, tremors shaking his body and, when Anathema took hold of the leading edge and gave a tug to set the bone back in place, a scream was torn from the angel's lips, before he fell forward in unconsciousness, barely managing to be caught by Newt.

"Well... This will make it easier," Anathema said with a light sigh, before continuing her work.

Crowley made a light sigh; feeling exhausted, and allowed his head to drop backwards as he followed the angel into oblivion.


End file.
